


Freedom Run

by Euphyxia



Series: Apocalypse Blue [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings, Light Bondage, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Smoking, Substance Abuse, Violence, Withdrawal, contains actual plot now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphyxia/pseuds/Euphyxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Six goes after Benny, Arcade tags along for the ride, and the past won't stay dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apocalypse Blue, now with plot! Well, a little bit of plot... then back to the self-indulgent smut, because I live in the gutter. This thing sprouted some legs and took off running, hope you guys don't mind. Warning for some slightly graphic violence in the first chapter. Thanks for the comments/kudos on this series!
> 
> This story can be read on its own, but will make much more sense with knowledge of the previous two works in this series.
> 
> Shoutout to my partner for beta reading, and for the Latin translations in chapter two.

By late afternoon, the Tops is bustling with activity. There's an exciting ambience on the casino floor; a cacophony of chiming slot machines, clinking chips and spinning roulette wheels. Lights flash in time to a familiar song playing over the loudspeakers, as elegantly dressed patrons occupy the various tables, placing bet after bet. The buzz of idle chatter humming low in the background feels warm somehow. Welcoming. If Arcade didn't know any better, he'd say it almost felt safe.

Which is exactly why it _isn't._

The Strip is an escape. A dangerous escape, filled with entertainment and creature comforts. It's not the various gangs or Mr. House's Securitrons that make it a perilous place, it's the distractions themselves. The booze, the caps, the tight, warm bodies being offered on every corner.

He understands now why so many people flock here. It's too damned easy to forget that the wasteland is waiting, harsh and unforgiving, on the other side of those metal walls. A lot of these people would never survive out there. But not Arcade. He and Six are much better acquainted with the Mojave, and its various atrocities, than most.

They've taken a few precautions to help Arcade blend in at the tables, but the doctor has never been a fan of pre-war clothing. The dark, button-up shirt clings to his skin, itchy and unfamiliar. It's too small for his frame—he can't even remember where they found the thing—and he's forced to leave the first few buttons undone to keep the collar from strangling him. He'd much prefer his lab coat, of course, but it's too conspicuous. Six has been spotted all over the wastes with a doctor at his side, and for this plan to work, Arcade needs to be invisible.

They've been staking out the Tops for a few days now. A small suite at Gomorrah has served as their base of operations, which is where they've currently left ED-E and most of their weapons. Arcade's got a knife strapped to one ankle and a silenced .22 tucked into the front of his waistband, but he still feels woefully unprepared.

It's a good plan, provided they can pull it off. If there's one thing Arcade can count on about Six—other than his capacity for violence or his baffling ability to make something edible out of mesquite pods and cactus flowers—it's his attention to detail. Nothing has been left to chance.

Arcade shouldn't be as nervous as he is, but the tightness in the pit of his stomach refuses to abate. He takes a sip of his drink and reminds himself to breathe. 

They've chosen the perfect time of day to do this. There are enough patrons inside the casino to keep the Chairmen occupied, but the place is not so crowded as to obscure the doctor's view. He's stationed at one of the roulette tables, has been there for roughly an hour by the time the courier walks in. Beyond the briefest of glances, they refrain from acknowledging one another. The idea is for Six to appear well and truly alone, which he does. The kid's even dressed down in some basic wasteland fatigues to keep the threat level as low as possible. And like Arcade, his weapons are well concealed. 

It's a strange sight, truth be told. Six cuts a less menacing figure without the thick, leather armour and the laser rifle strapped at his back. If not for the blue hair poking out under his cap, he could almost be a different person.

Benny's at the far end of the casino, surrounded by bodyguards. Watching him these past few days has left a bitter taste in Arcade's mouth. The guy's nothing but a greaser in a stupid coat that fancies himself king of New Vegas. Arcade's seen his type before. There are no shortage of power-hungry, entitled assholes in the Mojave, but there's something particularly loathsome about Benny. He's like the human equivalent of a radroach, Arcade thinks; dirty, skittish, and easy to crush underfoot. 

Or at least he _will_ be, if they can separate him from his bodyguards.

The courier wastes no time, making a beeline for the group. Arcade waits, keeping a careful eye on the situation. It's a moment before they notice the kid approaching. Even halfway across the room, the doctor can see the flicker of panicked recognition on Benny's face. The man's eyes go wide, and he glances back at his bodyguards to make sure they're still behind him.

An exchange of words follows. Arcade can't hear the conversation, but he can read the body language just fine. If Six is nervous, he isn't letting it show. The kid's almost _too_ relaxed. It isn't quite enough to put Benny at ease, but nothing's gone wrong just yet, and the dialogue continues. 

Everything from this point forward hinges on the courier's silver tongue. He doesn't put it to use often, much preferring brute force where applicable, but in this instance, even Six has recognized the importance of subterfuge. The last thing they need right now is the entire casino trying to kill them.

Arcade places another bet, temporarily feigning interest in the roulette wheel in front of him. By the time he finishes his drink and looks back up, Benny and Six are already on the move, stepping into the nearby elevator, just the two of them.

The kid catches Arcade's eye just before the doors close, and the doctor's sure he sees the faintest hit of a smirk on those lips.

The presidential suite it is, then. Only one way in and one way out. 

Right on cue, Swank bolts out from behind the front desk, hurrying toward Benny's bodyguards. Arcade can't hear what he's telling them, but it doesn't matter. It's a distraction, one that Swank has agreed to perform after some degree of prodding, and it's working. There's an irritated look on his face as he leads the four guards away from the elevator and across the casino floor. When they finally disappear around the corner, Arcade rises from the roulette table, ready to move. 

There are still Chairmen scattered amongst the crowd, but several seem to have followed Swank, and the others are too busy to notice a single, well-dressed patron slipping toward the elevator. Arcade's heart slams in his chest as he hits the call button, hoping against hope that no one will ask questions if he's spotted. The moment seems to drag on forever. He wipes idly at a drop of sweat beading across his brow.

The doctor nearly throws himself inside the elevator the second it arrives, slamming the penthouse button so hard that his fingers sting. There's no telling what kind of scene he'll walk in on when he reaches the suite, but for better or worse, he promised Six he'd be there. He _needs_ to be there. Arcade tells himself it's just for backup, in case things go sour, but that's a lie. 

He's there to pick up the pieces after Benny is dead.

The elevator chimes when it reaches the top level, and Arcade can already hear voices on the other side. The doctor draws the pistol from his waistband, cocks it carefully, and waits. The doors slide open onto a large suite with two pool tables and a sitting area, with a bar further beyond. Benny is bent backward over the nearest pool table at a painful-looking angle. Six looms over him, eyes wild, a 9mm pistol jammed against the man's forehead.

Benny's eyes dart toward the elevator. He doesn't know Arcade, doesn't recognize him, but the doctor's allegiance is crystal clear. He steps into the suite and points the barrel of his gun squarely at Benny's head. Realizing that help has not arrived for him, Benny's only response is to swallow nervously. His eyes are desperate when they return to Six.

"Come on, there must be something you're after!" he pleads with the courier. "All the trouble you went through to arrange this shindig... you can't have tracked me down just to put a bullet between my eyes."

The sneer on the kid's lips is feral. "Can't I?" he argues. "That's what you did to me." The venom in his voice sends a shiver down Arcade's spine.

"Look kid, I know it ain't fair, but I can make it up to—"

Benny drops this line of thought when Six reaches inside the man's checkered coat, fingers probing the inner pockets. The courier comes back with a gun, a silver 9mm pistol that looks awfully valuable. Without breaking eye contact with Benny, he holds the weapon out to the side for Arcade to take.

The doctor steps forward to claim it with one hand. His other hand remains on his own gun, still pointed at Benny, though he does take a moment to study the proffered weapon. It's a unique pistol. There's some kind of religious figure on the grip, a woman in a hooded robe, her palms pressed together in prayer. Arcade wonders idly if this is the gun that shot Six, and feels a sudden, aching desire to throw it off the nearest balcony.

"Any other weapons I should know about?" Six asks. Benny shakes his head, but the kid pats him down anyway, only to come back empty-handed.

"Come on kid, you and me. Let's work something out," Benny implores. "I can set you up here at the Tops. Your friend too. Anything you want—"

Six growls, digging the barrel of his gun deeper into Benny's forehead. The man grunts in pain as more of his back is forced into contact with the pool table, his spine arching now at an almost unbearable angle. Arcade finds himself pleased at the sight. There is nothing he wants more right now than to see this man get his comeuppance.

"You really have no idea who I am, do you?" Six asks. It's clear he's not waiting for, or even expecting a response. He yanks Benny up by the front of his jacket and spins him around. A shove to his chest and the man stumbles backward into the centre of the room.

"You were smart enough to get me alone up here," says Benny. It's clear now that he's starting to feel the heat. There's a slight shake to his voice, and he's thrown his hands out in front of his body to protect himself. Arcade feels no sympathy, but he does lower his pistol. There's no need for it now. 

"The Chairmen could use someone like you," Benny continues, more desperate than ever. "We're going to rule New Vegas. Don't you want that?"

A cold, humourless chuckle fills the room, and for the first time, Six turns to address Arcade.

"I don't think he gets it, Doc."

The darkness in those blue eyes is so deep, so all-consuming that for a moment, the doctor forgets to breathe.

"No," Arcade answers carefully. "I don't think he does."

The courier smirks and stows his pistol away in the back of his waistband. Arcade watches, much to his confusion, as Six makes a show of neatly rolling up his sleeves. The two of them hadn't discussed the specifics of _how_ they were going to kill Benny. He assumed that's why they brought the guns, but now...

It isn't until Six reaches for a pool cue off the table that the doctor realizes how wrong he's been. Benny's eyes are wide for the second time that afternoon, and Arcade can't keep the shock off his face either.

"There's only one thing I want," Six says, snapping the pool cue in half over his thigh, "and that's to see you broken and bleeding at my feet."

Benny doesn't get the chance to say a damn thing before Six cracks him across the face with the handle of the broken cue. The thin piece of wood cuts through the air like a whip; there's an incredible amount of force behind the blow, more than Arcade would have thought possible given Six's frame. A sickening crunch can be heard as it makes contact with the side of Benny's face. The man's head jerks violently to the side and he hits the floor, dazed and spitting blood. 

"I wonder if you'll squeal like a pig for me," says the courier. "Beg for your life, maybe?"

Arcade's fingers twitch at his side, but he doesn't move. He's not even sure if he wants to, and that scares him so much more than the sight of what's happening in front of him. 

Benny, meanwhile, has managed to push himself up onto one elbow. Six advances on him again, sharp incisors bared through snarling lips, and Arcade can't help but tense for what he knows is coming.

The second blow seems much worse than the first. Perhaps it's because of Benny's position on the ground. Perhaps it's the wide, downward swing that sprays tiny rivulets of blood across the room on the follow-through. Some of those droplets even reach the doctor, several paces away. They feel hot on the skin of his arms and chest, like acid, and he fights the urge to gag. 

The worst part, Arcade soon realizes, is the sight of Benny, now completely supine on the carpet, face bloodied, chest heaving. The doctor can't tell if he's bleeding from his nose, his mouth or his ears. He thinks it might be all three.

"You should have made sure I was dead," Six tells him, and there's a finality to the words that makes Arcade's stomach twist in his gut.

Trance-like, the courier climbs over Benny's body. There's a third blow, then a fourth, and by that time, Benny isn't moving at all. It's on the fifth blow, when Arcade sees a tooth skitter across the rug toward him, that he realizes the kid isn't going to stop.

" _Six,_ " he warns, fighting back a wave of panic. "That's enough."

The courier doesn't turn toward him, doesn't reply. A sixth blow rains down, and this time, when Six draws the cue back to his side, there's a stream of blood trickling down the wood, dripping onto the carpet at his feet.

Almost mechanically, he winds up for another swing, but Arcade's behind him in an instant, wrestling the bloody cue out of his hand. He tosses it clear across the suite and starts yanking Six away from the body. There's a split-second pause before instinct kicks in and the kid actively starts fighting him.

"For fuck's sake!" Arcade shouts. His voice is loud in the courier's ear as he drags Six backward by the waist. "He's _dead_ , Six. He's dead, okay? It's _over_."

The kid's eyes are wild, absolutely feral, and he thrashes like a caged animal against the doctor's hold. Arcade gets him by the neck, strong fingers squeezing just tight enough to threaten. He thinks he might be able to wrestle Six to the ground like this if he has to, but a sharp kick to his shin makes him falter and loosen his grip. It's just enough time for the courier to wrench free and shove him away.

They're both panting hard as Arcade's mind scrambles to keep up with what's just happened. He hopes it's over, realizes quickly that it's not when Six makes a beeline back to the body. This time, the doctor doesn't have it in himself to intervene. 

He's anticipating more rage, more anger. He half expects Six to start kicking the body, but the kid does nothing. He just stands there, watching the blood pool beneath Benny's head for what feels like minutes.

There's a different feeling in the air when he finally turns to face Arcade again, like he's come back to himself, if only a little. They're both bloody from the struggle, but Six is positively matted with it. There's crimson streaked over his hands and arms, even more splattered across the front of his wasteland fatigues. It's on his face, even in his hair—a handful of red streaks in a soft, blue ocean.

The courier stands over the body almost protectively, like a hunter with a prized kill. There's exhilaration in those blue eyes now. Arcade should find it disturbing. Under any other circumstances, he would. But this is Six, and on the floor at his feet is the man that tried to murder him and bury him alive. It had to be this way. Six needed it. _A brutal end to a brutal man,_ Arcade thinks. There's no denying that Benny deserved what he got. Maybe even worse. The courier can't have been his first victim, nor his last. By ridding the world of this man, they've probably _saved_ lives, and for now, the doctor's conscience is soothed.

He still would have preferred a clean shot to the head (Arcade's idea of wasteland justice is not without a sense of irony), but it wasn't his revenge to take. And if Six wants to bask in his victory, who is Arcade to deny him that chance?

Before long, the kid's grinning that same, shit-eating smile of his. It's a familiar sight, one that eases Arcade's tension for all of five seconds before Six ruins it.

"Still _with_ me now, Doc?"

Arcade frowns. The question is loaded with venom; a mockery of his pledge to Six that night at the safehouse. He refuses to take the bait.

Instead, he draws closer to both Six and the grisly scene at his feet. The doctor can almost taste the blood in the air as he approaches Benny's body. The man's injuries are even more grotesque up close, the carnage all the more visceral, but Arcade doesn't let his eyes linger. He checks the man's pockets and, after a moment, comes away with the small, innocuous-looking item that started all of this. 

The platinum chip.

"Here," he says, handing it to Six. "Does that answer your question?"

The kid stares at it, then back up at Arcade. There are questions in his eyes, questions he'd never ask aloud, but Arcade can read them like an open book. _Why are you still here? Why are you staying with me?_ He's gotten better at spotting the cracks in the courier's shell; better at interpreting what they mean, better at handling the squishy parts he finds beneath. Sometimes, when they're curled next to one another at night, he stares into those blue eyes and the shell is gone altogether. Those are the moments Arcade likes best.

"Just don't do anything stupid with it," the doctor adds as an afterthought.

The smirk returns to Six's lips in record time. "What, like give it to the Legion?"

He's joking, of course, but Arcade still grimaces at the thought. "Yes," he says in a clipped voice. "Like that."

The kid flicks the chip up into the air with his thumb and catches it in his open palm. There's a quiet sense of amusement in the way he studies the object. "I went through a lot of trouble to get this thing back. I think that makes it _mine_. Wouldn't you agree, Doc?"

"You'd keep it out of spite?" Arcade asks.

Six chuckles under his breath. "Something like that." 

Arcade's unsure what to make of the comment. Spite is certainly a feeling the courier knows well, he can attest to that, knows it's often the fuel for Six's anger. But there's no room to judge, not when the doctor is filled with so much spite of his own.

_Let him treat the chip like a trophy if he wants_ , Arcade thinks. They still have no idea what the thing does, but that's all the more reason to keep it out of Caesar's hands.

After a moment, Arcade glances down at their clothes. The smell of the blood is overwhelming. "Come on," he says, "let's get cleaned up. We can't leave here looking like this."

Six agrees without protest, and together they find their way into the suite's bathroom. If nothing else, Arcade's grateful for the distance it puts between himself and Benny's body. He takes a deep breath, perhaps for the first time since entering the suite, and focuses on what's next.

They strip down to their boxers and abandon their stained clothing in the tub. The next few minutes are spent in front of the sink, washing the blood off their skin. Bathing would certainly be preferable, but Arcade knows it isn't wise to linger here. Showers can wait until they're back inside their suite at Gomorrah. They focus on the areas that clothing won't cover—their faces, arms—and it's not long before the porcelain sink is stained red.

Arcade is the first to finish. He rinses off the lenses of his glasses and wipes them clean with a nearby cloth. When he slips them back on, Six's head is bowed and he's splashing water over his face. 

"There's still some in your hair," Arcade notes. From his angle he can see a few spots that Six has missed. Without a mirror in the room to guide them, the process has been that much more difficult. "Here, lean closer to the tap and I'll get it out."

Six grunts, but does as instructed, bowing further over the sink so that the tips of his blue strands fall into the running water. His hands are braced on either side of the porcelain lip, and the doctor notices with some alarm that Six is gripping the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white. And yet he's quiet, waiting for Arcade to begin.

The doctor finds a cup nearby and uses it to pour a bit of lukewarm water over the back of the kid's head. He works his fingers through the bloody areas, adding more water until the red has been washed down the drain. The courier's dark roots are several inches long now, black as night, just like his eyebrows and his stubble. Arcade's not sure he can picture Six without the blue. Black hair on this kid seems _wrong_ somehow.

It's at that point he notices Six is shaking.

It's barely discernible. The slight tensing of his back, the way the muscles strain with every rise and fall of his chest. Six's arms seem to be trembling worst of all, though his death grip on the sink remains. He's bent too far forward for Arcade to see the expression on his face, but he wonders if it's as anguished as the kid's body language would suggest. There's something disturbing about how small and fragile Six feels. The words themselves— _small_ and _fragile_ —are not words that belong in association with Six at all.

He pauses with his hand tangled in the kid's hair.

"Six?"

The kid jerks under his fingers. "What?" he says. "Are you done?" His voice is oddly quiet. Arcade suspects the only reason he can hear it at all is the amplification from the sink bowl.

"Tell me what's wrong."

A long pause follows his words. The running water is the only sound in the suite for several moments. Then, Six lets out a sharp, abrasive laugh. It catches the doctor off-guard. He should have known the mask would slip into place if he prodded too hard, and stews bitterly in his own failure.

"I can almost _hear_ you looking too far into things, Doc," Six chides. He pulls his hair free of Arcade's fingers and straightens up to his full height. The shaking hasn't stopped, not completely, but it seems less noticeable now. "The psycho's wearing off, that's it."

Arcade frowns. He doesn't like where this is going. "When did you take psycho?"

The kid shrugs. His hair is dripping onto his shoulders, small rivulets streaming down his bare chest, and he grabs a towel to dry himself off. "It was before I left Gomorrah. Figured I might need an edge," he admits with a grin. "Takes a lot to beat a man's face in. How else do you think I managed?"

Until now, Arcade hadn't thought much about the strength involved in the act itself. Six had used the heavy end of the pool cue, the handle, which _did_ carry some weight, but it was no lead pipe. And Six's arms, lean and wiry, with long, dexterous fingers, were much more suited to hacking and engineering than acts of brute strength. How _had_ he killed Benny in four swings of that weapon, if not on psycho?

"Sounds as though you planned on beating him to death," Arcade points out, and he can't keep the reproachful edge out of his voice. "You could have told me. Why bring the guns at all, then?"

"We didn't know what was gonna go down with those Chairmen. Still don't," Six reminds him, towelling off his hair. "Swank can only keep them occupied so long, and I wanna search Benny's personal suite before we leave. See if we can find out what the big deal is about this chip."

Try as he might, Arcade can't argue with that logic, and he follows Six into the suite's bedroom in search of clean clothing. The doctor finds a couple of pre-war outfits in one of the dressers and they dress quickly. Again, the fit's not right. It never is. The shirt and slacks are too big on Arcade, but it doesn't matter now. He finds a belt to keep the slacks from slipping down his hips and thinks he'll at least pass for being too drunk to dress himself properly.

The argyle sweater-vest the courier has changed into is even more ridiculous, but he uses it to his advantage, concealing several weapons they loot from the suite beneath the thick wool. Arcade notes that there's still a slight tremor in the kid's limbs when he moves. It's then, in that moment, that reality comes crashing down. Arcade would recognize those shakes anywhere. They're the same ones he's seen so many times from the addicts back in Freeside.

Six isn't just coming down, he's _withdrawing_.

The doctor immediately knows it's true. The pallor of the kid's face isn't that far off from any Freeside junkie. He's already got an addictive personality, what with way he pounds back alcohol. How has Arcade never made this connection before? They've been travelling together for over a month now. Maybe the addiction hasn't been going on that long, but what if he's wrong? What if Six has been hiding it this the whole time? A genuine sense of panic grips the doctor. He has _no_ idea what the truth is, and it scares him.

"I've seen what chems can do to people," Arcade warns. His words catch the courier halfway out of the bedroom. "You're playing with fire."

Something about the statement stops Six in his tracks, though he makes no move to turn around. He does, however, chuckle under his breath, adjusting the pistol inside his waistband. 

"Good thing I have a doctor with me, then," he replies, slipping out into the hallway without another word.

Arcade's not impressed, not in the least, but he holds his tongue. Now isn't the time to discuss this at length, even he can recognize that, and with a sigh, he follows Six out the way they came. 

The doctor keeps a measured distance between himself and Benny's body as they pass it, sticking close to the pool tables instead. His eyes remain carefully averted while they collect the rest of their weapons. Benny's pistol is placed safely inside the pocket of Arcade's too-large slacks. He wonders what they'll do with it when they get back to Gomorrah. It's unlikely either of them will use it; they both prefer energy weapons. And as much as Arcade wants to blow the thing to hell with the nearest stick of dynamite, it's not for him to decide.

Six is still scouring the room when Arcade calls the elevator, but there's nothing else to loot. They've taken what they can carry, and the extra weapons will make them a tidy profit. Enough, certainly, for another night at Gomorrah if they choose to linger on the Strip.

But the courier isn't done just yet. He sweeps a handful of damp hair off his forehead and swings past Benny one last time. There's a sudden swell in the kid's step; Arcade doesn't miss it. He's spent enough time watching Six walk in front of him to know the difference, and wonders idly what he's about to witness this time.

He's almost relieved when Six's only move is to spit on the man's body. 

It's a crude gesture, but Arcade understands the significance. It's yet another way in which Six has prevailed over his enemy, and the doctor is much too tired to comment. 

The chime of the elevator is a welcome distraction.


	2. Chapter 2

Night has fallen on the Strip. The cool breeze is pleasant on Arcade's skin, and he breathes it in, a deep breath meant to calm and centre.

It doesn't work. 

The Strip is more crowded than ever. Gamblers and NCR soldiers line the streets, shuffling drunkenly from one casino to the next. There isn't a care in the world among them, and for a moment Arcade finds that enviable. _They're as single-minded as the Securitrons_ , he thinks. Arcade wonders what that's like.

An even larger part of him wants to be angry with these people, but he can't. Were he not a doctor, were he not with Six, what's to say he wouldn't fall victim to these same distractions?

The doctor sighs, casting the thought from his mind. He's in no state for self-reflection. It's been a long day, and his senses are too dulled by exhaustion. If he's going to berate himself, he'd much rather it be cruel and effective. That, of course, requires the full function of his mental faculties. He'll have to pencil it in later, after a long bath and a glass of whiskey.

Arcade hasn't experienced this level of emotional fatigue in some time. He's much more familiar with the physical exhaustion of a day's trek across the Mojave. Tired limbs and aching feet are easily cured with a meal and a good night's sleep. This sudden sense of being lost, however, of being set adrift in the violent, blue sea that is Six... this is new to him. And yet, Arcade can't shake the feeling that the storm has barely begun.

They've got a lot to think about after their conversation with Benny's Securitron. Yes Man was a little too helpful, which has turned out in their favour. They can now count themselves well-informed about the platinum chip. If not for Benny's selfish motivations, he might have even been on the right track, though it pains the doctor to think it. Indeed, the possibility of an independent New Vegas is thrilling. The world seems to have opened up around them at the knowledge that such a thing is possible. 

Six had certainly been interested. The devilish twinkle in those blue eyes as the robot talked is a look Arcade's not likely to forget. It's an appealing course of action, this idea of taking over Benny's plans. But with the fate of New Vegas hanging in the balance, they're not about to make any hasty decisions. The courier is well aware of the weight this choice carries. It's one to be made with a clear head, and right now, neither of them can claim that.

More importantly, Six needs Fixer. The shaking remains slight, but it will get worse. It always does. The last thing they need is for this addiction, severe or not, to spiral out of control and become a liability.

With that in mind, they set off toward Gomorrah. They only get as far as the street, however, before Arcade notices a man approaching them, cutting a swath through a group of drunken soldiers up ahead. He's better dressed than half the patrons at the Ultra-Luxe, in a crisp black suit and bowler hat. His face is unfamiliar—pale skin, with dark eyes and a wide nose—but he makes a beeline for Six, like he's been waiting for them. They're under no threat of attack here on the Strip, not with the Securitrons to keep the peace, but there's something not right about this. Something that immediately sets the doctor on edge.

Six has noticed the man too, but he's not reacting the way Arcade might have predicted. On the contrary, in fact. When the man draws close, within speaking distance now, there's a spark of recognition in the courier's eyes.

"It's _you_ ," Six says, and already Arcade is struggling to keep up with the conversation. "Vulpes. You were there that day in Nipton. You called me—"

"Corvus," the man finishes. His voice is smooth, if a bit nasally. "The raven. A befitting name for one of Caesar's messengers. Though I believe it suited you much better before the blue hair."

The doctor's stomach nearly drops out from beneath him. This man, Vulpes, is definitely of the Legion. He can see it in the way the man carries himself, the hardness of his eyes as they survey the strange sight he and the courier must make slinking out of the Tops together in their ill-fitting outfits.

But the man's words... they echo in Arcade's ears like a gunshot. The implication is clear, but it's nigh absurd. Six is _no one's_ messenger. He's not even a courier anymore. More than that, the kid has absolutely _no_ love for the Legion. He and Arcade have slaughtered their fair share of legionaries, often times entire scouting parties, without so much as a second thought. 

And yet, Six has never mentioned Nipton. Arcade knows of it, half the wasteland knows about the lottery by now. News of it had reached Freeside, back when Arcade was still working with the Followers. In fact, it hadn't been too long afterward that Six had first blown through the Mormon Fort, all blue hair and wild eyes.

Now, however, there's a naked look on Six's face as he takes in the information. It's an expression Arcade has never seen on the kid, not even in their quietest, most intimate moments. Something honest and raw is laid out in his eyes, like a festering wound that refuses to heal. Arcade can't tear his gaze from the courier's face, such that he nearly forgets about Vulpes.

"The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you once more. He was most displeased when you ran away from us, Corvus, but my Lord extends you mercy now."

The kid takes a sudden step forward, sharp incisors bared through snarling lips. "Call me that one more time and I'll send you back to Caesar in pieces."

The man tilts his head to the side, as though pleasantly amused. "I mean you, nor your companion any harm. You have accomplished much since you left us. Caesar wishes to bestow a gift upon you." Vulpes extends his hand toward the courier, and in his open palm is a small silver token on a chain. "His Mark. Take it, and all your crimes against the Legion will be forgiven."

Arcade's sure the exhaustion must have gone to his head, because there's no way this is really happening.

"Caesar wishes your safe return to us," Vulpes continues. "Do as he bids. Bring the Mark to Cottonwood Cove. A boat will be waiting there to take you to Fortification Hill."

Six is visibly shaking again. This time Arcade can't tell whether it's out of anger, shock, or the withdrawal, but it's worse than earlier. Much worse, in fact, and one of the kid's hands feels for the pistol at his back. For a single, tense moment, Arcade imagines Six might make good on his threat, that he might truly pull out the weapon and kill Vulpes right there on the Strip. In the end, the courier's fingers do nothing more than tighten reflexively around the grip.

"I have spoken only the truth, Corvus," Vulpes explains, letting the chain dangle now from his fingertips. "Take the Mark. Go to Caesar. You have a place with us still. He will help you remember who you really are."

Six's fingers tighten further around his gun. "I know who I am," he growls, but the words are empty, devoid of meaning, and all three of them know it.

"Is that so?" Vulpes asks. "You thought me a stranger, back in Nipton. You remembered nothing from before the profligate tried to kill you. I suspect that is still the case. You think me a stranger even now." His voice changes, and there's something akin to sympathy in it. "Come back to us. See for yourself the life you left behind."

The courier isn't having it. His entire face is drawn in anger, dark brows knitting together sharply. "Fuck you," he says with a scowl. "I'd rather die."

Six won't accept the Mark. It remains unclaimed, dangling from Vulpes' fingers, the chain swaying in the cool breeze. It's clear that the courier has no desire to see his crimes against the Legion forgiven, which may just be a miracle in itself if any of what this man has told them is true.

It's Vulpes this time that takes a step forward. The moment he broaches what could be comfortably considered Six's personal space, Arcade's hand is inside his pocket on the grip of his gun so fast that it surprises even him.

It's enough to make Vulpes stop in his tracks. His dark eyes round on Arcade, but the doctor meets them fiercely.

"Let this remain a civil conversation, Doctor Gannon. I promised no harm to either of you," he reminds them. "A Frumentarius does not give his word lightly."

Arcade doesn't bother to ask how this man knows his name. It's clear to him now that the Legion have been watching Six—and by extension, _him_ —for some time. The thought makes him more nauseous than the last glance he'd taken at Benny's body.

Indeed, the concept that this man's word might mean _anything_ to him is laughable, and Arcade says as much, watching the legionary's face twist into something ugly. 

"Surely the concept of a promise is something even a profligate can understand," Vulpes replies with a twitch of his lip. 

The man's doing an excellent job at holding back his anger, Arcade thinks, considering there's a large vein throbbing at his temple. Vulpes must be on orders not to hurt them. Strange enough, none of his ill will is directed toward Six. It's all for Arcade. He and Vulpes' eyes remain locked, and the doctor wonders idly whether he'll end up crucified for this somewhere down the road.

Securitrons be damned, the thought of Six drawing his pistol right now and painting the ground with Vulpes' brain matter holds more appeal than ever.

"Perhaps I will let my actions speak for me, then," the legionary continues.

He does this by wrapping the chain around the token and slipping it into the outer pocket of the sweater-vest Six is wearing. The kid's body is wound tight with all the tension of a coiled spring, blue eyes fixed on Vulpes' every move, but he remains in place. Like Arcade, Six seems to realize that they won't be rid of this man until they take the stupid token, one way or another. When the deed is done, Vulpes steps backward, out of Six's personal space, his arms outstretched on either side of him.

"You remember more than you think, little raven," Vulpes baits. "What of the phrase Caesar would say each time he sent you away? Perhaps that will jog your memory." There's an odd, almost hopeful glint in the man's eye. " _Vola, meus corvus,_ " he recites.

 _Fly, my raven,_ Arcade's mind supplies, grasping for the correct translation.

Then, something strange happens. Six bows his head in what looks like an entirely mechanical gesture. " _Ad astra, dominus meus,_ " he answers without pause, without a hint of hesitation. The sound of the Latin on Six's tongue chills the very blood in Arcade's veins. The courier's head snaps back up in shock a second later, like he has no idea what's come over him.

Arcade hears the words in his mind and feels cold.

_To the stars, my lord._

"You sing so beautifully, still," says Vulpes. He looks pleased. "Perhaps profligate life has not corrupted you half so much as Ceasar feared."

 _It's true, all of it,_ Arcade thinks with a sinking feeling. This must be the universe's way of punishing him. God knows he deserves it. He'll never stop paying for his own mistakes. Knowing his luck, he's probably still paying for some of his father's, too. 

Six. The one person in the wasteland he actually feels something for. _Of course_ the kid would turn out to be a fucking Legion runaway and a chem addict.

When Vulpes speaks again, there's a smug edge to his words. "Cottonwood Cove," he reiterates. "Don't keep Caesar waiting."

He leaves them there, outside the Tops, and Arcade can't seem to breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

They get propositioned by no less than three prostitutes on the way back to their suite.

"I wouldn't mind taking a bite of _you_!" one of them yells at Six as they pass. It's the sort of thing he and Arcade would have laughed about, under better circumstances. But there's no laughter now, not even a quirk of the kid's lips. It's almost eerie the way the comment rolls off him like a drop of water.

ED-E beeps at them as they enter the suite, but is similarly ignored. Six doesn't acknowledge the robot at all. He rips the argyle sweater-vest off his person as fast as humanly possible, not looking at Arcade, not looking at anything. The rest of the outfit follows, as do the kid's weapons, one by one. The 9mm pistol in his waistband, the straight razor strapped to his thigh, the switchblade in his boot. He leaves them all on the dresser and stands there in his boxers, shaking again. Maybe he never stopped.

Arcade makes for his doctor's bag. He rifles through it for the single dose of Fixer he knows is inside, and pulls the syringe free of its case.

The courier turns to look at him, lament in his eyes. 

"Come on. Don't make this difficult."

Six doesn't. He walks over willingly and lets the doctor inject him in the upper arm with the syringe. His eyes are downcast.

"You should rest," Arcade tells him. "You'll be nauseous for a while."

They're avoiding the topic at hand. Arcade doesn't want to mention the Legion, or Caesar or Vulpes, or any of it. He doesn't want to bring up the compliance with which Six bowed his head, the familiarity with which he spoke that phrase in Latin. That makes it real. And if it's real, then they have to deal with it.

The easier discussion is that of the psycho, of what happened with Benny in the presidential suite. And isn't _that_ a thought.

"Six?"

The kid hasn't moved. He looks lost and vulnerable and so goddamn young, half-hiding behind his hair. What an ordeal his life has been. Shot in the head, buried alive and then rescued; finally able to exact his revenge, only to have it spoiled by _this._

Was Six born into the Legion? Is Corvus his real name? What about his parents, his family? Vulpes made it clear that Six had left the Legion of his own volition, but how? It's then Arcade realizes, with a horrible stab of anger, that the only place Six will ever find those answers are at Fortification Hill.

That's must be Caesar's plan. Lure him back in with answers, and never let him go again.

Arcade's furious, of course, but not once does he consider directing that anger at Six. He can't blame the courier for a life he doesn't even remember, no more than he himself might be blamed for his father's involvement with the Enclave. Perhaps the answers on offer by the Legion are ones the kid can live without. Arcade hopes so, because if Six were to walk in there now, there's a good chance he wouldn't come back out. Either of his own accord, or of Caesar's. 

And that's the real betrayal, isn't it? The thought of Six _willingly_ defecting to the Legion. A thought so sickening it threatens to turn Arcade's stomach right there in the middle of the suite.

Sure, the kid has some strong convictions right now—he did just tell Vulpes he'd rather die than return to the Legion—but that could change. Arcade's seen stronger beliefs than Six's buckle at the mere _chance_ to belong, to feel a part of something. 

The doctor doesn't force any further conversation. Instead, he sighs and follows Six's lead, stripping off his weapons and clothing piece by piece. He lays the guns out on the coffee table, and when Benny's pistol finds its way into the growing pile, Six draws in close to stare at it.

"That's..." The kid swallows hard. It takes him a moment to collect himself. "That's the gun that nearly killed me," he declares, and his eyes are cold as they regard the weapon. "I remember it."

Arcade frowns, toeing off his slacks. "I can get rid of it, if you want."

There's an odd flash of panic in Six's eyes. "No," he says, hands balling at his sides. "Leave it."

The doctor can't hide his bafflement. The gun itself is not to blame for Benny's crimes, but why the sudden attachment to it? Arcade's frown deepens, and he wonders if he's simply trying to affix logic where none belongs.

"Keep it then," he replies, a bit defensively. He doesn't mean for the words to come out quite so harsh, but exhaustion has dulled his careful filter. On a whim, he decides to roll with it. "Do you have any more psycho in here?"

The kid glances up, troubled by the question, but shakes his head.

"Don't lie to me," Arcade warns. "Where is it? I'm not above going through your stuff, so just cut the bullshit."

It's no great surprise to see those blue eyes narrow in response. Six has never taken well to threats. Arcade isn't the type to make them, either, but damned if he's going to let this continue. He'd rather the courier hate him than end up a junkie. 

"Where is it?" he repeats.

Six folds his arms over his chest, though he's yet to deny the accusation. "What's your fucking deal?" he asks, lip curling in distaste. "You've seen me take chems before."

It's exactly the kind of non-response Arcade expects. "In moderation," the doctor points out. "When we were cornered or pinned down or otherwise desperate. But I was there to watch you. And might I add, those times never left you shaking afterwards."

The kid lets out a loud huff, but there's no denying the truth. And unwise as it may be to push Six further, Arcade does it anyway. He has to.

"Where is it, Six? I won't ask you again."

He's drawn up to his full height now, towering over Six by nearly a head. Arcade can feel the scowl on his lips, knows it's none too kind, but he refuses to censor himself in this. All his anger, all his pent-up frustration is clawing at the surface, forcing its way through.

They're at arm's length, still next to the coffee table where Arcade has laid out his weapons. Most of Six's hair is dry by now. The front pieces hang loose, wispy and soft against his cheekbones. His eyes are on Arcade, twin blue slits, stubborn as always. A long moment passes, neither speaking. The doctor's threat hangs in the air, a clear and ever-present challenge, and the kid seems to be weighing his options.

Arcade wonders if Six might fight him in this, the same way he fought while being dragged away from Benny. He's expecting it, actually, but the courier does no such thing.

"In my bag," comes the quiet admission. He drops his gaze to the floor. "There's a hidden pocket in the lining."

Arcade crosses the room, feels around inside the canvas bag. It takes him a moment to find the pocket in question. It's certainly hidden well. He can feel Six's eyes on him as he rifles through the contents. Within the pocket, he finds a single dose of psycho, two inhalers of jet and a bag of green pills that he highly suspects are buffout.

It's quite the stash. The doctor has half a mind to flush it all down the toilet, but they're in no position to be throwing caps away. Instead, he slips them into his doctor's bag for safekeeping. 

"These stay with me until we can sell them, understood?"

There's no protest from the courier. If there's any remorse in his face, any shame, it's not about the drugs themselves. It's about giving in to what the doctor has asked of him. No easy task, not for Six. Such a thing would have been unthinkable just weeks ago. But the fact that there's enough trust there now for him to accept Arcade's help is promising.

He feels the sudden urge to thank Six for that trust, important step that it is, but he suspects that will only scare the kid away, perhaps even incite his anger. Six is oddly skittish at times. Too much open affection will spook him. Arcade can only get away with such things in the dead of night, when the lights are out and Six can keep his reactions hidden.

Arcade settles for a gesture instead. He makes his way back to where the courier is standing and reaches out to brush loose blue strands away from his face. His fingers are gentle as they cup the side of Six's head, hand lingering protectively in the kid's hair. And damned if the courier isn't leaning into the touch, just a little.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks. His other hand comes up to touch Six's forehead, gauging his temperature. The kid remains pale, his skin clammy and a bit cold, but the shaking has stopped.

"I need a smoke," Six admits, and Arcade can't help but smile at the offhanded comment. The kid certainly sounds like himself again. It helps to ease the tension in the room.

"You need rest. And a bath."

"A bath?" the courier asks. "In my condition?" There's a curious glint in his eye. "I don't know, Doc, could be dangerous. Maybe you should supervise."

Arcade laughs, fingers travelling down to the smooth curve of the kid's jaw. He's not put off by the cheeky remark, or the insinuation behind it. Quite honestly, he's amazed that Six's sense of humour remains unchanged in light of what's happened.

Perhaps the two of them are due for a distraction anyway. 

"Supervise?" Arcade asks, quirking a blond eyebrow. "Is that all?"

Six smirks and pulls away with a look that speaks of much more than bathing.

There's no shower in the suite, just a large, claw-foot tub. It takes several minutes for the thing to fill up, time in which Six gets the smoke he's been craving. He waits there, perched on the edge of the tub in just his boxers, cigarette hanging from his lips. It's a sight Arcade finds thoroughly appealing when he walks in a minute later with a glass of whiskey in one hand.

"Where's the bottle?" Six asks.

The doctor gives him a knowing look. "None for you. The Fixer isn't going to do it's job if you're drunk."

The kid pouts a little around his cigarette. "So you brought that in just to tease me?"

"Believe it or not, I actually brought it in to drink," Arcade tells him, and demonstrates this by taking a swig of the amber liquid. His eyes find Six's over the rim of the glass. "Maybe I'll give you a sip if you're good," he adds.

Six seems to like that idea, if the haste with which he shucks off his boxers is any indication. Arcade takes another sip of whiskey and leans against the door frame to watch. He's not quite used to the sight of the courier naked. It never fails to stir his desire. It's the kind of lust, sudden and hot, that makes Arcade shift in place and grip his glass that much tighter.

They haven't had sex since the safehouse, but they've fooled around some, on the way back from Jacobstown. A couple of trysts, quick and efficient, inside Arcade's bedroll, bringing each other off with talented fingers and whispered words. Satisfying encounters in their own right, but not the thorough exploration that Six's body deserves. As such, the doctor is all the more grateful for the safety and privacy of their suite. It's the opportunity he's been waiting for, a rare chance to admire the courier uninterrupted, and he's not about to let it slip by.

The kid's prominent hipbones are the first thing to draw his gaze. Arcade's never tasted them with his tongue and thinks he'd quite like to, wonders if they'll have the same earthen flavour as so much of Six's skin. His eyes dip lower after that, down to the dark curls between the kid's thighs. He gets only the briefest glimpse of Six's cock—not yet hard—before the courier sets himself down in the water and the view is obscured by ripples.

The tub is nearly full now. Steam rises from the surface of the water, and even from a distance, the moisture in the air threatens to fog Arcade's glasses. He tugs the frames off his face and perches them atop his head as he pads over to the tub. His nearsightedness won't be a problem here, not with what he's got planned.

The doctor arranges himself cross-legged next to the bathtub. He rests his elbows on the lip, glass of whiskey still balanced in one hand. He can't help but revel in the way the kid's eyes follow his movements. There's something inherently thrilling about being watched by Six. He likes knowing those curious, blue eyes are fixed on him.

It's not long before Arcade's fingers are drawn to Six's chest. He trails them over the smooth, pale skin he finds there, and then encourages the kid to recline in the water by adding just a hint of pressure between his pectorals. Six sinks down, careful to keep his half-finished cigarette above the water, and makes a contented noise once he's submerged up to his shoulders.

"That's it," says Arcade, as he shuts off the water. "Relax."

The doctor takes one last sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass aside. Without the ambient noise from the faucet, the room has fallen quiet around them. The only sound now is squeak of the kid's skin against the tub as he makes himself comfortable.

There's a clean sponge floating around in the water. It's soft and saturated when Arcade fishes it out.

"Close your eyes. I'll tell you if I need you to move," he says. Six meets his gaze, confused for a moment, until the doctor makes his intent clear by running the soft sponge across Six's chest. 

The courier lolls his head back against the edge of the tub, though his eyes remain open. A chuckle escapes him; it's little more than a low rumble in the back of his throat. "A sponge bath from a tall, sexy doctor?" he asks with delight, taking another languid drag from his cigarette. "I must be dreaming. I'm about to wake up in my bedroll with my hand down my pants, aren't I?"

Arcade's grip on the sponge falters at the unexpected compliment. He's never been a vain man, but he's certainly not immune to flattery. It's been used against him in the past, often by men looking for an easy way into his bed, but this is different. Six is _already_ in his bed, so to speak. Such a comment from the courier's lips, sealed as tightly as they often are, means more than it should.

"I didn't realize this was a fantasy of yours," Arcade replies, dragging the sponge over a lithe shoulder. 

The kid gives a pleasant little shiver. His gaze is heavy and languorous when it meets the doctor's. "If this is the result," Six tells him, "I'm starting to think I should fuck up more often."

It's meant as a playful remark, but Arcade chews on the words a moment, weighing the meaning behind them. There's a lot on the table, after all. He deliberates, watching the kid finish off his cigarette and ash it on the edge of the tub.

"You haven't fucked up," he says, and lifts Six's arm out of the water to begin washing it in earnest.

There's disagreement in the way the kid diverts his gaze back to the bathwater, but he says nothing. It's just as well, Arcade thinks. It's conceivable that he _may_ have overreacted about the psycho, not that he'd ever admit such a thing aloud. Better to come off as harsh as possible on the matter. He is, however, starting to doubt the possibility of Six nursing a hidden addiction. More likely the dose was too much for his slight frame.

True or not, there's no sense in Six dwelling on his own perceived failures. They won't be assuaged in one night, nor would Arcade expect them to be.

The doctor pauses his ministrations when he reaches the bullet wound on the kid's bicep. The gash itself is freshly healed, having scabbed over quickly once the stitches were out. Nothing remains now but an angry, purplish scar. It's but a tiny brushstroke on the canvas of Six's skin; not his most noticeable scar, nor his least.

"It's healed well," Arcade muses, running a careful finger over the area.

"Why do you take care of me like this?" Six asks. He's staring into the bath, eyes chasing the ripples in the water as Arcade re-dunks the sponge. "I never do the same."

"That's not true." 

Six's methods may be unorthodox—the shaving incident at the safehouse springs to mind—but the intent is no different. He's taking care of Arcade too, in his own way. The doctor understands this, doesn't need or expect Six to state it outright. He's refrained from making his own motivations clear for fear of scaring the kid off, but in light of the question, he realizes it's time for that to change.

"Six, I do it because I care about you," he begins, his voice soft. "Plus, I'm a doctor. It's kind of my thing." 

There's a gentle, effortless smile waiting on Arcade's face when the courier finally looks up at him, and they sit there for several moments, sharing in its comfort. Arcade takes the opportunity to resume the sponge bath. He makes it to the kid's other arm before the silence is broken.

"I don't know how far I would have gone if you weren't there."

There's something to be said about Six's ability to shock him with a few simple words. Arcade hadn't expected that Six might be first to broach the topic of Benny's death. Then again, he hadn't expected that at thirty-five, he'd be travelling the wastes with a blue-haired kid more than ten years his junior. He's not a big fan of expectations. 

"I'm glad you can admit that," Arcade says, and he means it. This might be the first time they've had a discussion like this face to face.

"I don't care if what I did to him was cruel," Six continues. "I'd do it again."

Arcade's not surprised. He dunks the sponge again and moves down to one of the kid's thighs. "I've made peace with that," he explains. "The wasteland is a cruel place." 

"Do you think I'm cruel?" the courier asks, shifting as Arcade drags the sponge over his inner thigh, then up to the juncture of his hip.

"Sometimes," the doctor admits. "But not to me, and not to the people that need your help." It's an honest answer, though perhaps not the one Six expects.

The kid mulls it over for some time. He's more relaxed under this gentle bathing than Arcade's ever seen him. It makes for a pretty picture, with his head resting on the edge of the tub, eyes half-closed. Arcade takes his time with the rest of the courier's body. He makes certain to brush the kid's cock a few times in the process, pleased by how quickly it swells under even this most modest attention. 

Six grunts something under his breath that sounds like the word _tease_ , but Arcade feigns perfect innocence. It's not long before Six ends up thoroughly washed and shampooed, skin pink from the hot water. The pads of his fingertips have just begun to turn pruny, at which point Arcade orders him out of the tub so he can take his turn. There's not quite room enough for both of them, not comfortably, and so Six steps out, skin glistening.

The water is still warm when Arcade gets in, but he's too impatient to lavish himself with the same attention he'd shown Six. He bathes quickly and methodically while the kid dries himself off with a towel. This keeps them both temporarily occupied, and there's a different kind of tension in the room now, encouraged by the heated glances they can't seem to stop sharing. It's enough to make Arcade stiffen under the water, arousal pooling in his belly.

By the time the doctor steps out of the tub, Six is leaning naked against the sink, carding long fingers through his hair. The blue strands remain damp, but his skin is dry, and there's a smirk on his face as he offers Arcade a fresh towel. His expression is nothing short of smug, but it won't last long, not if Arcade has his way. He wants to see the courier spread out on the bed, reduced to a whimpering mess beneath him. There's something so beautiful about watching the kid come undone.

Arcade makes quick work of drying himself off, and soon swaps the towel for his discarded drink. Six takes one look at the whiskey and licks his lips.

"How about that sip?" he asks, his tone playful and light. "Have I been _good_ , doctor?" The kid punctuates the question with an exaggerated flutter of eyelashes, and Arcade can't help but chuckle. Six must know the picture he makes, all pale limbs and hard cock.

"I think you've earned some," Arcade concedes, his voice hoarse. "Open your mouth."

The doctor brings the glass up to Six's face, feels his arousal spike at the way the kid parts his lips so willingly and extends his tongue. _Good_ isn't even the word for it. Six is positively obedient in the way he accepts the amber liquid into his waiting mouth. Several drops slip down over his chin—not entirely by accident—and Arcade leans in to chase them away with his tongue.

How is it that the whiskey tastes so much better off Six's skin? The doctor savours the warmth of it on his tongue, down his throat, and the next thing he knows, he's descending on the kid's lips.

Six makes a breathless noise as their mouths come together. Their bodies aren't far behind, and Arcade groans into the kid's mouth at the matching slide of tongues and hips. He drops the empty glass into the sink so he can pull Six in tighter, one hand on the kid's flank, one on the side of his face. There's an incredible amount of heat trapped between their bodies, skin warm and clean from the bath, but it's the feel of the courier's arousal pressed against his own that has Arcade rolling his hips.

By the time they pull apart, they're both short of breath.

"So well-behaved for me," Arcade purrs, tucking a strand of blue hair behind the kid's ear. "Is this part of your doctor fantasy? Or are you just that eager to let me have my way with you again?"

For once, Six's clever smirk is nowhere to be found. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide with lust, and his only response is a single, stuttering roll of his hips. Arcade swallows hard as the realization hits. Six really _does_ want him to take the lead. Has the courier hungered for his submission just as much as Arcade has?

The doctor doesn't wait to be asked. "On the bed," he orders, feeling a dark thrill shoot through him as Six moves to obey. The kid disentangles their twined limbs, eyes on Arcade, and slides out from his spot against the sink. He sets his shoulders and leaves the bathroom without a word, but the mask is slipping, and Arcade recognizes the false bravado for what it is. Six is desperate for this. The evidence is there; the slight tremble in the kid's gait, the way he glances over his shoulder to see if Arcade is following. They're small signs, only revealing in the sense that the doctor knows how to read them.

He's a different breed, Six is, but Arcade won't leave him wanting. He intends to deliver.


	4. Chapter 4

Arcade does follow him then, slowly stalking his prey out into the main suite. He pulls his glasses back down onto his nose so he can view the scene in crisp detail. His eyes are drawn to the kid like magnets, raking over narrow hips, memorizing every scrape and bruise etched into the kid's flesh, then downward, to the tight curve of his ass.

And boy does the kid have an ass. Arcade drinks in the sight with greedy eyes, cock throbbing between his legs like the pervert he is. There's no sense hiding it now, not when he's finally got the chance to do this again.

It's not long before Six makes it to the bed, at which point he turns and sprawls backward over the mattress. Arcade's already fond of the position, likes the idea of having Six face-up. His knees are bent and spread just wide enough to give the doctor a good view of how hard he is.

Arcade has to blink a couple times behind his glasses just to make sure his brain hasn't vacated his body. The gesture defogs his thoughts long enough for him to notice that ED-E is still floating near the door. The robot is quiet, it presence barely of note, but Arcade orders it into the bathroom anyway. It gives a sad little beep as it goes, which Six seems to think is funny.

Arcade makes a quick detour to fetch a bottle of lotion. On the way back, he spots a thin leather belt in a nearby pile of clothing and returns to the bed with both items, settling comfortably between the kid's legs.

When he glances up, Six is staring at the belt with mild intrigue. "You really _are_ full of surprises, Doc," he quips, lips curling up into a grin.

"Oh? Does this surprise you?" Arcade asks, holding up the belt for Six to examine. It's one of the courier's, rarely used for its intended purpose, more often serving in place of rope to tether his bedroll to his canvas backpack while they travel. "Would you like to know what I'm going to do with it?"

Arcade knows the kid won't refuse, but he still waits for the silent nod anyway.

With a smile, he leans down over Six's body, pausing mere inches from the kid's lips. "I'm going to stick my fingers inside you and make you come," the doctor explains, revelling in the shiver that his words elicit from the body beneath him. "You're likely to squirm and misbehave like a naughty child, which is why I'm going to tie your wrists first."

The kid's tongue darts out over his bottom lip, and it's impossible to miss the way his cock twitches against the flat of his stomach. 

"Now be a good boy and give me your hands," Arcade prompts, moving back to lean on his heels. Six just smiles and complies with delicious ease. He presses his wrists together, hands balled in two, loose fists, and offers his arms to the doctor. Arcade wraps the thin leather belt around the kid's wrists as many times as he can before closing the buckle. It's a snug fit; he pauses to adjusts the belt for more give, testing the tension until he's sure it won't bruise or cut into the courier's skin.

It makes for a pretty picture when he's finished. Six is left flushed, sprawled on his back, wrists fastened together. The kid gives a bit of experimental resistance to test the belt and finds it quite inescapable.

Arcade is now free to continue with his plan. He decides, first and foremost, to arrange Six to his liking. He does this by lifting the kid's arms over his head so that his bound hands rest against the mattress. It leaves Six a bit more exposed, biceps splayed on either side of his head, arms bent at the elbows. Lean muscles tremble almost imperceptibly beneath pale skin; not from discomfort, Arcade suspects, but in anticipation. Still, he waits a moment to make sure there are no complaints before removing his hands and letting Six hold the position on his own.

"Keep them right there," he instructs, grabbing the lotion. "And open your legs."

Six does as instructed, curious blue eyes on Arcade as he spreads his thighs wider and allows the doctor in between them. Exposed like so, there's nothing left to the imagination. Every part of him is bared to Arcade now. The kid's cock is hard and obscenely swollen, clear beads of pre-come leaking from the slit. There's a dusting of dark hair on his balls that draws the doctor's eyes downward, even further, to the small, puckered hole that will soon be clenching around his fingers.

It's not long before the courier is nearly panting under the visual scrutiny alone. Arcade feels a thrill of triumph, and chuckles low in his throat. "All of this and I've barely touched you," he gloats, letting a flicker of amusement play across his face. "Maybe I should change that. What do you think?"

All Six can manage is a quick nod, but it's the only signal Arcade needs. He begins by leaning down over the kid's chest to take one of his nipples into his mouth. It pebbles quickly under the treatment and, after a moment, he withdraws to tease it instead with a rough pinch of his thumb and forefinger. Six moans beneath him and bucks his hips. The doctor takes this as an encouraging sign and moves onto the next one to repeat the process.

"Fuck," Six growls, arms trembling ever-so-slightly where they frame his face. Their eyes meet through the thin lenses of Arcade's glasses. "Stop teasing me you fucking—"

"Finish that thought and I'll bend you over my knee right now," Arcade warns, forcing his voice perfectly flat. "Is that what you want?"

The whine that comes out of Six's mouth at those words is music to Arcade's ears. And indeed, the thought of taking Six over his knee and spanking him raw makes Arcade's cock twitch between his legs. The doctor half expects Six to finish the sentence just to call his bluff, but the kid merely huffs and fidgets in his bonds.

_Next time,_ Arcade thinks to himself. He's got a deep pool of sexual fantasies from which to draw, and no matter how ambitious he feels tonight, there's only so far their stamina can carry them.

With that, the doctor returns to the task at hand—that which he has promised Six—and slicks several of his fingers with the lotion. Arcade can feel the courier's eyes on him, desperate and half-lidded, as he tucks in a bit closer. He can't resist leaning down to breathe hot air over the head of the kid's cock, and pulls back just in time to avoid the upward thrust of Six's hips.

The courier is quickly losing control. "Come on," he whines, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip. "Arcade..."

He's a split-second away from saying _please_ , from begging for the doctor's touch. Arcade wants to hear it—wants it desperately, in fact—but he wonders if maybe it's too much. If it might be pushing too far. He ends up erring on the side of caution, relenting and trailing his slicked fingers down over the kid's hole. His mouth, meanwhile, ghosts over Six's erection and he darts his tongue out to collect the moisture leaking from the tip.

The kid makes a strangled noise as Arcade circles his entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle. It doesn't take long before Six is squirming against the touch, trying to draw the digit inside. When Arcade finally takes pity on him, he makes a combined assault, sucking the tip of the kid's cock into his mouth at the same time he slips a finger inside of him.

Six's reaction does not disappoint. He nearly bites his lip bloody trying to keep a lid on the sounds threatening to spill out of his mouth, but the moment that probing finger finds his prostate, he can't hold them back any longer. The dual sensations are too much; the feel of Arcade's finger inside him, the wet heat of the doctor's mouth taking him deeper, swallowing around his swollen flesh.

Arcade draws back long enough to lick his lips. "That's it," he lauds, voice rough, "show me how much you want it."

The kid smells clean from the bath, but there's a scent all his own mixed in, something musky that Arcade can taste on his tongue. The doctor lets it fill his senses as he descends once more, sucking playfully at the tip of Six's cock as he works up to a second finger. By the time he's got both digits inside, massaging that wonderful spot that makes Six writhe and curl his toes, he knows he's got him on the edge.

"That's a good boy. Let go," Arcade tells him, drawing back once more so he can see the kid's face. 

With a choked expletive, Six's body jerks and does just that. The kid spills hard across his stomach, head tossed to the side, his mouth half-open in a breathless moan. Arcade strokes him through it, savouring every quiet whimper, relishing the sharp rise and fall of the kid's chest as he fights to catch his breath. Arcade waits patiently for him to come down, then smiles and withdraws his slick fingers, thoroughly enjoying the way Six squirms at the loss. 

What a vision the courier makes now, shaking and covered in his own spend. Arcade's getting off so hard on it; the belt, the position, Six's sudden obedience. There's no denying how good the kid looks all trussed up and stretched out like this. The position pulls the muscles in his arms and chest taut, makes his ribs stand out a little beneath his skin. Arcade's gaze turns reverent as his fingers find their way to a sharp hipbone, tracing tiny circles over the pale skin.

"Shit," Six says with a laugh. His eyes are glazed, and he's flushed down to his neck. "That was _some_ prostate exam."

Arcade can't help but chuckle. The kid's sense of humour is growing on him, as are the offhanded comments. Not that he'd ever admit it aloud. 

"I may have deviated from procedure a little bit," the doctor concedes, dipping his mouth down to the kid's hip. He replaces his fingers with his tongue, licking a stripe over the peak of Six's hipbone, then down to the hollow just inside. He decides on that sensitive spot to mark him, sucking and nipping at the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. Six lets out a startled breath and bucks his hips. 

Arcade pulls back with a grin, admiring the modest red mark he's left in his wake. There's a slight purple tinge to it, though he suspects it will darken by morning. The position gives him a good view of the kid's cock, which has flagged somewhat in the wake of his orgasm, but is quickly recovering. It gives an interested twitch under the scrutiny.

"The wonders of youth," Arcade teases, still close enough for the warmth of his breath to tickle Six's hip. "So eager. I should teach you some patience."

The courier scowls, flexing in his restraints, but there's a playful look in his eyes and Arcade knows the resistance is all for show. "You love it, old man."

That Arcade does. 

Still, he rolls his eyes at the exaggerated epithet before leaning down to lick away the bitter droplets of come clinging to the head of Six's cock. The kid goes rigid beneath him, a whine caught somewhere in his throat. He's still so sensitive. The doctor could have a lot of fun with that if he weren't so desperate himself. 

After the bath, after watching Six come undone... Arcade certainly does know a thing or two about patience. His arousal is thick and insistent, begging to be touched. He can't put his own desires off any longer and straightens up, reaching for the discarded bottle of lotion. When he returns, Six's eyes are between his legs. 

Without a word, the kid spreads his thighs further. It's an invitation if Arcade's ever seen one, and he tucks in close, lifting the kid up a little so the bottoms of his thighs rest against the tops of Arcade's. He uses the angle to slide his arousal inside the cleft of the courier's ass, and the sensation is such that he has to swallow back a moan.

"Did I mention I wasn't quite finished with that exam?" he asks with a ragged breath. Arcade can't keep the light amusement out of his tone. He's enjoying this—maybe too much—but it doesn't matter, not once the blunt head of his cock finds the kid's entrance and presses slowly inside. 

A surprised moan tears itself from Six's throat. He's loosened just enough from the earlier stretching to make it comfortable for them both, and Arcade slips inside with only minor resistance.

"Oh fuck," Six rasps, and the doctor finds himself in silent agreement.

Arcade grips the courier by the hips, angling them upward so he can pull Six further onto his dick. He likes the slight downward angle, pleased with the control it gives him. It's a position he can really put his weight into, meaning a hard, deep fuck that Six is going to feel for days.

"There's a good boy," Arcade murmurs, voice soft and encouraging as he sinks in to the root. The slick, wet heat is a welcome relief, and Arcade holds himself there, sucking in a sharp breath at the feeling of being buried so deeply inside Six's body. He's taken yet again by how tight the kid is, how well he takes it, how perfect he looks tied up and stretched open like this.

Six's arousal is back to full strength, flushed and twitching against the flat of his belly. The white streaks across his stomach remain, but Arcade's in no rush to clean them away. Debauched is a good look on Six.

"Been waiting for this, have you?" Arcade asks, easing back with a slick sound. The same thing could be said for him, but the question serves its purpose, and the kid isn't about to deny it. Little point in that when Six is already rolling his hips for more. The kid does grin, however—that same, stupid grin that makes the doctor want to kiss him breathless. When did that expression turn endearing? Arcade isn't quite sure, and he's forced to tuck the thought away for later inspection.

For now, both their eyes are are fixed on the joining of their bodies. The doctor has the better view of it from above, but the specifics are a moot point once he starts to move, hips slamming down into Six with enough force to rock them both forward on the mattress.

The friction is overwhelming, and Arcade's eyes flutter shut with a groan. He sets a vigorous pace, fucking the kid with long, hard contractions of his stomach and hips. Maybe it's the angle, maybe it's the belt around his wrists, but there's _something_ making Six more vocal than usual. Every thrust draws another throaty moan out of him, and Arcade savours each one like a fine wine.

"Keep those hands up there for me," he orders, noticing the way Six's arms have begun to tremble above his head. It's nice to see the kid shaking in a way that has nothing to do with chems. 

"And if I don't?" Six hisses, biceps flexing against the strained position. His cheeks remain flushed, and there's sweat beading across his forehead, trapping several errant blue hairs against his face.

"Then I might just decide to leave you here all night," says Arcade. He punctuates the threat with a deep thrust that makes the kid whine and buck his hips. "Maybe I'll bind your ankles to the bed and tease you some more."

Six makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. 

"Or," Arcade continues placidly, "you can be good for me right now and I'll fuck you until you can't think straight." It's a counter offer he knows the kid can't refuse.

"Fuck," Six groans. His voice is hoarse, lips swollen and red where he's bitten down on them. "Yeah." His eyes are pure, molten heat. "Yeah, I'll be good."

The doctor responds with a pleased growl and slams home. He's going to deliver on his promise, because it's what Six needs. A good fuck. A distraction. A way to quiet all those thoughts swimming around in his head. There's no room for Benny or the Legion or any _what ifs_ when Arcade's driving into him with abandon.

And the doctor's not quite out of tricks, either. He prides himself on being an observant lover, and has learned a thing or two about Six since they started this. The night at the safehouse had been particularly enlightening. He'd taken careful note of the way they fucked, how rough Six chose to be with himself when given the chance, and Arcade decides to replicate that now. He matches the pace, the intensity, pounding into the courier with everything he's got. The strength behind each thrust pins the kid hard to the mattress on each down stroke, turns him into a whimpering mess beneath Arcade's hands.

Six is perfect like this. Lips parted, face flushed, blue hair splayed in a wild halo around his head. He's been reduced to small, whimpering moans, trying feebly to hide his face against his straining bicep, but Arcade won't have it.

He takes the kid's chin in hand, brushes his thumb over those reddened lips, and fixes Six in a burning stare. 

"Will you come for me again?"

The words are barely out of his mouth and Six is already nodding, squeezing his eyes shut and driving himself back onto Arcade's cock. True to his word, he's kept his hands in place above his head, and the willing submission is making Arcade's arousal borderline painful. He's lasted far longer than he should have, sheathed inside the kid's slick warmth, but he's going to see Six's pleasure through first if it kills him. 

The doctor decides to help things along by reaching down to stroke the kid's cock in time with his thrusts. There's pre-come smeared down Six's belly, leaking in a steady stream from the tip of his cock. He's so close. Everything in his body language—from the tremble in his arms to the way he's clenching around Arcade's cock—screams of how close he is. Arcade maintains his pace, keeps the angle right to hit the kid's prostate on every thrust. The last straw is when his fingers find one of the kid's nipples. Arcade pinches the little nub just hard enough to make Six yelp and jerk beneath him, and that's all it takes. The courier arches his back like a cat and explodes across his stomach, hips shuddering as the doctor strokes him through it.

The kid makes quite the picture streaked in white, having now added to his earlier mess. The sight of him breathing hard and covered in his own spend is what does it for Arcade. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he's there, hands gripping the kid's hips, emptying himself inside of Six with a grating moan.

Neither of them move for a long time. It takes their breathing a few minutes to even out, at which point Arcade feels some strength return to him. The first thing he does is reach for Six's wrists, gently pulling them back toward his chest. The kid groans as the strain on his muscles is finally eased, and watches with still-glazed eyes as the doctor unclasps the belt.

"You alright?" Arcade asks. The leather falls away from the kid's wrists to reveal the same pale, unmarred flesh as before. There's not a single mark on him from the belt, but Arcade wants to be sure. 

Six rubs at the newly-exposed flesh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "You're too careful, Doc," he says with a chuckle, as Arcade slowly withdraws from between his legs. The doctor reaches for a discarded t-shirt and uses it to clean them both up. "I cut you up last time, remember?" the kid continues. "I don't dish out what I can't handle."

Arcade hadn't minded the rough treatment back at the safehouse. He knows his own limits, couldn't deny wanting to push them that day. But he certainly isn't about to make any voluntary incisions on Six. He cuts the courier open enough as things are.

"I would never hurt you," Arcade says. It's not even in response to the kid's words, just an errant thought that he can't clamp down on in time. Is the fallout really so important anymore? Maybe it's better to lay all his cards on the table, consequences be damned.

It's a mistake. The timing is all wrong. They're not in a haze of arousal anymore and reality has once again come crashing down.

The courier bristles at the comment. The heat in his eyes is long gone, replaced by something cold and hard. He rises quickly from the bed, puts some careful distance between himself and the doctor. His back is turned as he lights up a cigarette, but Arcade sees the retreat for what it is.

Six is scared. Everything is too raw all of a sudden—Benny's death, the Legion, the state of New Vegas. It's all an open wound, and Arcade can sense the kid's anger returning, can feel it coming on like a clap of thunder in a lightning storm.

"I was in the goddamn _Legion,_ " Six growls over his shoulder. "A fucking bitch boy for Caesar by the sound of it." He takes another long drag on his cigarette and laughs, but it's a dark sound, devoid of humour. "That's what I am, Arcade. A fucking errand boy. And somehow you think _I_ can fix all this shit?"

If Six is trying to provoke him, it's a wasted effort. "That's not who you are," Arcade replies, rising from the mattress with a sigh. "Only _you_ get to decide that. Not me, not Vulpes. You."

The air around the kid is thick with cigarette smoke; a dense cloud mirrored by the suffocating level of tension in the room. Six doesn't respond, but his anger is palpable now, peeling off him in waves. Arcade isn't the target. He's in no danger of winding up like Benny, but the way the kid is seething gives him pause, makes him keenly aware of the loaded silence that has settled between them.

"Look," Arcade continues, grabbing a clean pair of boxers, "I'm aware that the odds of us fixing the wasteland are slim, but I'm not giving up hope." He tugs the material over his hips and turns back to the courier. "Have I laid some of those aspirations at your feet? Absolutely," he admits. "You're the most capable person I know. That's why I trust your judgment with the platinum chip."

Six tenses, shoulders rolling forward almost defensively, but he doesn't turn around. Arcade doesn't expect him to. Better to have this conversation without eye contact than not at all.

The doctor hopes for some kind of response this time. He'd even take Six screaming at him over the loaded silence, but there's nothing. The kid just snubs his cigarette on the dresser and goes for his leather armour. Arcade watches him pull it on piece by piece, his heart sinking all the while. He could kick himself. _This is what happens when you get attached._

He doesn't ask where Six is going. There's no point. The courier won't tell him anything when he's in this kind of mood. Arcade can't help but feel like it's his own fault. He should have known putting all his cards on the table would scare the kid off.

Once his armour is in place, Six moves on to his boots. He laces each one with the same methodical grace before drawing up to his full height, now armoured from the shoulder down. His dirty old trader cap is the last piece of the puzzle, scooped up off the nearby chair and placed atop his head.

Only then does Six finally turn to face him.

"What would it take for you to finally decide I'm too much trouble?" he asks. The courier is aiming for nonchalance, but doesn't quite make it. There's a sad undertone to the question that makes Arcade's chest tighten and he frowns. 

For all the cracks in the courier's shell, all the tiny spiderweb fissures he tries to hide, there are still so few glimpses at the rawness beneath. He's sure this is one of them, disguised as another halfhearted attempt at pushing him away.

"I don't know," the doctor says with a shrug. "Shy of you kicking puppies for sport, I think you're stuck with me."

Six pauses with a fresh cigarette halfway to his lips. Their eyes meet, and there's an air of thinly-veiled suspicion in the way the kid's dark brows knit together. "You watched me beat a man to death," he says with narrowed eyes.

Arcade doesn't need the reminder. The sight of Benny's caved-in skull is not one he'll soon forget. "I did."

"And you're still here."

"I am."

"Then tell me something," the kid prompts, a shrewd look in his eyes. He decides against the cigarette, instead tucking it behind his ear for safekeeping. "When Vulpes spoke to me earlier, he said something..." Six pauses, already having difficulty with the memory. "I know you speak Latin, Doc. Just tell me what he said."

The doctor sets his jaw, tries to clamp down on the unease creeping into his bones. He remembers the words—of _course_ he remembers—but there's no way Six is ready to hear them. Knowing the specifics will only make things worse. 

"It's not important," he mutters.

Sure enough, Six's face contorts in anger. "The hell it isn't," the kid snarls, lips curling up over sharp teeth. "Tell me."

Arcade hasn't moved from his spot near the bed. He's too tired for an argument, doesn't want to see the situation dissolve any further, so he gives in. He tells Six the truth, recites, word for word, the strange exchange with Vulpes, and watches the kid's face sink like a goddamn brick in water.

Like there isn't enough on his conscience already.

Six swears under his breath, then turns turns sharply and kicks the coffee table with one booted foot. The noise makes Arcade jump, not unlike like the table itself, which stutters backward, sending Arcade's pile of weapons toppling off the edge. They skid several feet across the carpet before coming to a halt near the patchy armchair. Nothing moves for several moments, the silence heavy around them.

"Fuck," Six says after a while. One of his hands reaches up to twine through the longish blue strands at the back of his neck. He flattens them against his skin and sighs. "This is all wrong."

"If you want to go to Cottonwood Cove, I won't stop you," Arcade tells him, shifting slightly in place. He hasn't been this nervous in the kid's presence for a long time, not since the early days spent staring at Six's ass, when the idea of anything physical between them had been a mere fantasy. "I know you're not interested in working with them, but I can't blame you if you want answers."

The courier's head jerks up, and he draws near with a feral look in his eyes. "Is that what you think I'm doing right now?" he asks, in a tone that makes Arcade shiver. "Running off to the Legion?"

Arcade doesn't know _what_ to think. With his luck, he might have already pushed Six away, and who's to say he wouldn't end up in the Legion's arms?

"I would rather die," the kid snarls, as if hearing the thought somehow. "You were right, Doc. They don't get to tell me who I am."

The doctor adjusts his glasses, feeling dazed. Did Six just take his advice? The thought of the kid actually listening to him is so alien that he has to pause a moment just to absorb it.

"Let me make this clear," Six continues. "The person they're after—Caesar's pet, some glorified errand boy, whoever the fuck I was to them—that person is dead. As far as I'm concerned, my life started the day I woke up in Goodsprings." 

It feels as though the kid has come to this realization on the fly, but the words themselves are no less genuine. There's a striking sense of clarity behind them, something tangible that Arcade can almost feel with Six standing so close.

"Good," the doctor says, and boy does he mean it. Six is trying; in his own way, at his own pace, and Arcade can't ask for more than that.

The courier gives a quick, affirming nod, and that's that. Resolution, of a kind. The discussion isn't over, Arcade knows that, but they've made more than enough progress for one day. 

They're still quite close to one another, Six in his dirty leather armour—which still smells faintly of blood no matter how often he cleans it—and Arcade in nothing but his boxers. The kid's looking up at the doctor from beneath his cap, not hiding, not stepping away. Arcade wonders if he's greedy for wanting to lean in and kiss him now. He's grown tired of second-guessing the things he wants when it comes to this kid. Arcade's never been the best judge of risk versus reward, but he takes the gamble anyway. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ he thinks, and reaches up to cup Six's face in his hands.

The kid goes still, his spine rigid in a way that screams discomfort, but his skin is warm, colour creeping slowly into his cheeks. Perhaps the problem is as simple as his mind being at odds with his body's reactions. That's something Arcade can work with. He's still not sure where the courier is heading in that armour, but it doesn't matter. As much as the doctor doesn't trust Six not to do something stupid, he _does_ trust the kid's ability to get himself out of it.

"Do whatever you need to do," he says, warm breath tickling Six's lips. "I'll be here." Arcade can't help but smile then, sweeping his thumb over the swell of a high cheekbone. When he brings their faces together a moment later, the kiss is little more than a soft brush of lips. Quick, warm, full of words it isn't wise to say aloud. Six doesn't even have time to return it before they draw apart.

The kid's a bit flushed. His pupils are dilated, and he's staring at the doctor's mouth like he's never seen a pair of lips before. Arcade suspects that the courier hasn't known much gentleness in his life, both the one he can remember and the one he can't. He wants that to change. He wants to be the one to show Six that the wasteland isn't all death and suffering.

They remain like that for a moment, eyes locked, Arcade's hands still in place on either side of Six's face.

"You're good to me," the kid says in a quiet voice. He looks a bit sheepish under his cap. "I was heading down to the casino. I wanted to sneak a few drinks where you wouldn't see, but that's it. I'm not about to tuck tail on you, Arcade. I wouldn't do that."

"Then stop trying to push me away."

"I..." Six pauses, fidgeting under the doctor's gaze. "I don't mean to."

Arcade believes him. He knows it's some kind of defence mechanism, a behaviour deeply ingrained into the kid's psyche, but being on the receiving end hurts all the same.

"You're safe with me, Six. You know that, right?" He lets his hands fall away and is pleased when the kid nods. Arcade doesn't expect more than that, and for now, the acknowledgement is enough. It's another small step in the right direction. Enough of those and eventually they'll get where they're going, even if neither of them are quite sure where that is yet.

"Just try not to come back shitfaced," Arcade adds.

The mischievous smile that spreads across the courier's face is answer enough. "I won't wake you," Six says, padding over to his bag. "How about that?"

Arcade laughs and sets himself down on the edge of the mattress. The bed is calling to him for a different reason now, and he fights back a yawn. "I can live with that," he concedes after a while, watching Six rummage through his bag.

The kid scrounges up some caps, just a small pouch, enough to keep him at the bar for a while, and tucks them into his pocket. Next up is his switchblade, the one thing he never goes anywhere without. He grabs it off the dresser and slips it into a slot in the front of his armour.

When he turns back around, the doctor is watching him. Their eyes meet fora moment, and Six clears his throat.

"I'm coming back, Arcade."

"I know."

It's a simple exchange, but it leaves Arcade with a warm feeling that persists long after Six nods and slips out of the room.

Arcade rests easy that night knowing the courier will keep his word. And indeed, when he wakes up a few hours later to the feel of Six pressed against his back, snoring and smelling like whiskey, he knows everything will be fine.


End file.
